


you circled me inside my room

by vavafroome (spaceboy_niko)



Category: Cycling RPF
Genre: Comfort, Comfort Sex, Hand Jobs, Homesickness, M/M, Platonic Sex, Sharing a Bed, Wet Dream, but like the unsatisfying kind, plus some veeeeery mild somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29997216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceboy_niko/pseuds/vavafroome
Summary: in his early years in europe, george misses home. sam understands.
Relationships: George Bennett/Sam Bewley
Kudos: 7





	1. this feeling's going to my head

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for all the birthday wishes <3 i have been spoilt rotten and also made very aware of how i am still comparatively a Child
> 
> in other news, i decided about a month ago that i'm going to take a bit of a pause - i'm really struggling with balancing work and study, so in an effort to prioritise i'll be off until at least my semester break in july. this fic is an exception because the idea was just so in my brain and i had to finish it. i'll still be lurking quietly and passively, but i don't know when i'll be properly back. there's enough people writing in the fandom now for me to feel okay about dropping off the radar for the foreseeable future.
> 
> in the meantime, please carry the george torch on for me, and feel free to hit me up on discord because while i may not be able to commit time to writing i sure as hell will leap on any dms about george
> 
> (title from hand crushed by a mallet by 100 gecs, which i think gives away a lot about my age)

It's Sam who drags George out of thankless continental hell.

Sam is likeable, friendly, charismatic enough to pull a few strings with the RadioShack directors, and tells George to expect an email five minutes before it comes through.

George is still jumping between Europe and home with as much reckless abandon as his limited funds will allow, but the thought of work - constant work, _paid_ work - makes him say yes.

Gone are the days of riding for toasters and kettles and pats on the back - suddenly, he is a professional road cyclist. Suddenly, he has a commitment, a real one.

It's _fun_. He's only been taken on as a stagiaire, and he's only ridden small races with low stakes and guys who have never won anything in their whole professional career, but it doesn't matter, because he's a _professional cyclist_ who can now say he rides for Lance fucking Armstrong of all people.

But, like, _fuck_ , he's tired, and he's kind of sick of always having someone practically on top of him in the hotels, which all feel the same yet different and unfamiliar, and the sheets always feel stiff and soapy. 

It's on his first training camp, as he makes the shaky transition to RadioShack, that it hits him. This isn't a gap year, nor is it a once-in-a-lifetime competition. Europe is home, now - no, no, it still isn't. Europe _has_ to be home now, whether he likes it or not.

It scares him.

His kit still smells new, the zips running with the squeak of new teeth interlocking, and it mellows out with his own smell at the end of the day, but there's still that underlying unfamiliarity.

He sleeps fitfully the first night, waking up in pitch darkness with his legs tangled in his sheets, uncomfortable in every way he can describe - hot, sweaty, cold, thirsty, hungry yet nauseous and eyes already adjusted to the dark.

On the second night, he gives up on sleep, locking himself in the bathroom so he doesn't wake up Sam with his reading light, hoping that the Jack Reacher novel he's slowly working through will put him to sleep. It never does, and he skulks back to bed when the dawn begins to peek through the bathroom window.

Sam frowns at him out on the road on the third day, at the back of the bunch and uncomfortably tired. "You alright, GB?"

"'Course. Why?"

"You're all- I dunno, _snippy_."

"I am not snippy-" George begins petulantly, and realises the snippiness of his tone. He shuts up before he can dig himself a deeper hole.

"What's keeping you up at night?"

"Nothing."

Sam waves the car down, takes two bidons and a caffeine gel, and pops the cap on one of the bottles as he hands the rest over to George.

"The light wakes me up," Sam admits as he slots his half-spent bidon into his bottle cage, and George feels terrible as he sucks the last of the gel out of its packet. "I get back to sleep again pretty quick, but I worry about you."

"I'm okay. Still stuck in the wrong time zone, you know?"

It's a little white lie, and Sam frowns.

George waits, hopes he doesn't try and dig deeper.

"Alright," Sam responds finally, and doesn't mention it again.

George finishes the Jack Reacher novel that night. It's shit, and he's glad it's over, but he regrets it a little, because now he has no idea what he'll do tomorrow night when he can't sleep.

* * *

George nearly falls asleep on their coffee break the next day, the warmth of his cappuccino and the afternoon sun a deadly combination of comfort. Sam lets him, keeps an eye on him, and claps him on the shoulder a bit more vigorously than he would normally when it’s time to go.

George is thankful for Sam, he supposes, because he’d hate to make a fool of himself in a new team - it’d be yet another thing to keep him up at night.

The cafe sells cookies as well, ones that are the size of his hand and studded with hunks of shiny dark chocolate, and he gets one for the road, plus one for Sam as a thank you, and sneaks it over to him when they’re both allowed to hang off the back.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Europe. He ponders this as he brushes his teeth, ponders it more as he climbs into bed. He just can’t figure out why he can’t allow it into his heart, let it share the same space as Nelson - holding a soft spot for Ventoux alongside Aniseed Hill, becoming as familiar with the mountain bike trails of Belgium as he is with the Rameka track, trading red dirt for white dust.

He rolls over onto his side. Sam breathes quiet and slow from the other side of the room.

Sure, he liked Europe a lot more when it felt like a junket - free-flowing beer, good food, general irresponsibility - but now it's one drink if he's lucky and god, he'd kill for even that shitty chocolate that went grey if you looked at it wrong, like the stuff on pineapple lumps, and oh, there's the hurt just behind his eyes, just before the tears start to prickle.

 _Who would've thought_ , he sighs to himself, _that of all things that could make you miss home, it'd be fucking pineapple lumps?_

He's not aware how loudly he's breathing until he hears the shift of sheets - Sam rolling over, awake.

“C'mere,” Sam says, voice foggy with sleep.

“What?” George frantically tries to compose himself, and Sam sighs.

“I know how it feels. I’ve got you.”

George considers - his pride, his dignity against the tightness in his chest and the sleep that constantly evades him - and makes a decision.

It feels awkward as he crawls out of his bed and into Sam’s, but that disappears as he’s ensconced in Sam’s blankets and the _smell_ , Sam smells familiar and comforting and like _home_ , but he can’t quite put his finger on what the smell actually is, just that it brings up that ache in his throat again, and he thinks he’s going to cry.

The wet patch on the pillow tells him he is crying.

Sam drapes a surprisingly strong arm over him, and says nothing.

George tries to keep a friendly amount of space between his legs and Sam's crotch, but sleep finally, blissfully comes to him, and he wakes up to the alarm and finds that, during the night, centimetres crept through milli-nano-micrometres, and he's tucked in close to the slow rhythm of Sam's chest as he breathes.

Sam reaches over him nonchalantly to the nightstand and clicks off the alarm.

"Morning."

George's mouth feels like he's just peeled cotton balls off his tongue and cheeks.

“Morning,” he rasps.

"Did you sleep okay? At all?" Sam asks, eyes twinkling as he grins.

George blinks himself awake as Sam gets out of bed, and realises he isn't tired.

"I- yeah. Yeah, I did, thanks."

Sam smiles, a different smile this time. "Any time."


	2. i'm thinking things i shouldn't say

George dreams he is waking up in Sam's bed, no urgency, no panic. He’s comfortable, well-rested, and maybe they have a rest day today, or maybe this exists outside of the set of circumstances they are in. Either way, there is no alarm, and he is free to wake up slowly as the light creeps in.

Sam’s bed smells clean, crisp and comforting, and George isn’t sure if he smells it on himself or if his scent is mingling with Sam’s, slowly reaching an equilibrium of the two of them. Fuck, he could wake up like this forever.

He feels breath hot on his shoulder and fingertips warm on the waistband of his underwear. He feigns sleep a bit longer, just to see what happens, and what happens is the touch continues, gently slides down his boxers and wraps around his cock. The movement isn't fast or hard, but soft and slow, coaxing him out of sleep and into curtain-filtered daylight.

"Morning."

George feels the word more than hears it, feels the puff of Sam's breath on his skin and the rumble in his throat vibrating between them, and Sam continues, exactly the same but now agonising and teasing, taking his time to build up to what George knows he could do in mere minutes instead of this torture.

George does little more than tense up and exhale when he comes, and rolls over to bury his face in Sam's chest. No need to get out of bed just yet.

Just as he’s contemplating returning the favour, he wakes up again, this time for real, embarrassingly hard and praying Sam doesn’t notice.

George slams off the alarm and unwraps himself from Sam, moving his still-waking body as fast as he can into the bathroom and under the shower.

 _What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck_ runs through his head as he hisses, scalded by the too-hot water, but he doesn’t want to take too long and wait for it to cool, so he grits his teeth and carries on.

It feels bad, dirty, guilty, _wrong_ as he jacks off quickly, and he scrubs himself down like he can clean the feeling off his skin.

Normally, he'd take his time and wait for Sam so they could go down for breakfast together, but he doesn't today, pulling on his shirt and sweatpants and hurrying downstairs.

He sits at one of the two available seats at the table for breakfast, hoping he can avoid eye contact with Sam when he sits.

He rides hard on the front as they climb today, nose in the wind, and tries not to think about Sam or the dream too much.

Would he like that? He’s definitely into girls, but it’s normal to think about guys that way, too. It just feels weird when it’s one of his close friends, and this weirdness also feels normal.

He wonders if Sam would actually touch him like he did in the dream. The thought of being touched like that - gently, carefully, lovingly, being held softly over the edge and taken apart in Sam’s arms - does _things_ to him, things that are going to make riding a bike very awkward if he keeps thinking about it.

He shakes his head, as if that will help get the thought out of his head, and tucks into the descent.

Sam saves him a bidon for when he drifts back again, and George spends the rest of the ride thinking about the clumsy overlap of their fingers during the exchange.

His efforts mean he's knackered tonight, quiet at dinner and heading up to his room early, hoping he can fall asleep of his own accord. Maybe, he thinks as he untucks the clean sheets, he won't even wake up with a stiffie.

"What are you doing?" Sam asks.

"Going to bed?" George answers.

"Are you going to be able to sleep?"

 _No_ , George thinks as he says, "Yeah. I'll be fine."

God, he just knows that Sam knows he's lying, and Sam must know that he knows this.

Sam's perception is proven keen as ever when George pushes back his duvet and the sound echoes from Sam's bed.

It's more urgent tonight, the need to be close, and Sam seems to understand that, pulls him in and holds him tightly, chest-to-chest. George feels the tears prick at his eyes, but it feels different than the other nights he’s had to cry. It’s sort of overwhelming, the tenderness of it all, but it’s so _nice_ and so _familiar_ and it makes him so _happy_ that he has to let go.

He presses his face into Sam's shoulder, lets the tears roll. Sam holds him, saying nothing, letting him cry.

"You always," George says thickly, swallows, tries again. "You always smell like something, like, home, like my backyard or something."

"Tea tree," Sam says. "My soap. It's got tea tree oil in it."

George inhales again, and yeah. There it is. It smells like backyard cricket in summer, getting the ball lost in the bushes and breathing in that clean smell. It smells like being warm and suntanned-cusping-sunburnt, shirtless and slick with sunscreen, legs dangling in the neighbour's pool and condensation gathering on the side of a glass of lemonade.

"It's nice," is all he can think to say.

And it is. George can feel Sam's chest rise and fall as he breathes, the quicker thudding of his heart, the pulse in his neck beating against George's cheek.

“Thanks?” Sam says, and neither he nor George pick the conversation apart more. It doesn’t need to be dissected. They exist in a bubble - one that, if they question how it exists too much, poke it too hard, it will burst. Neither of them want that, content to just let this intimacy surround them.

George tries to match the slow, easy rhythm of Sam’s breath, but Sam is bigger than him and takes in the air slower, almost meditatively, and it reminds George of the wash of the ocean as it lulls him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> story-wise, this fic ends here. the next chapter is just a bonus :P


	3. i don't want you to think i got bad intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short little bonus because be honest, that's what you're all here for

Sam is hard.

George isn’t sure how this hasn’t happened earlier, but here it is - warm, thick length pressing into his back, undeniably obvious.

He shifts, rolls his hips back, and Sam exhales.

"Good morning," George grins, in lieu of addressing the elephant in the room.

"Sorry, I'll-" Sam's tone is unplaceable, and he doesn’t sound like he intends on finishing the sentence.

George rolls over, and Sam's cheeks are tinted pink, lips slightly parted as his eyes flicker down George's chest and into the dark under the duvet.

"It's okay," George murmurs. "Do you wanna-?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes, and George reaches down between them.

Sam groans quietly as George's fingertips brush over the length of his cock, exploratory. His skin is soft, the head fitting snugly into George's hand, the shaft conducting pulse into palm, the base brushed with wiry hair that George can only feel. It's familiar, in the sense that George has and is intimately familiar with his own dick, but new and thrilling in that as he touches, strokes, feels, he pulls groans, gasps, and half-started words out of Sam.

He takes his time to learn Sam, adjusts his grip and skates his fingers over the tip, squeezes, watches which ways make Sam's eyes flutter shut and his brow furrow and his fingertips press into George's skin just a little more.

"Is that good?" George asks, half to fill the quiet, half out of real curiosity.

"Uh-huh," Sam sighs, huffs out a breath as George flicks his thumb over the head and drags the slick precome down over the ridge where head and shaft intersect. "Do that again."

George obliges, and Sam lets out a small noise. " _Fuck._ "

The duvet muffles the slick sound of George’s hand moving, but the sounds that Sam makes hang between them, each hitch of breath and quiet moan ringing in George’s mind, until Sam whimpers - fucking _whimpers_ \- and comes hot over George’s fingers.

“Jesus fuck, Sam,” George whispers reverently, clumsily reaching for the tissues on the nightstand and wiping his hand off.

“Can I return the favour?” Sam asks, eyes intently searching George’s face, and George feels the pulse in his neck thud harder and faster.

“God, yes,” George answers, slightly louder and clearer than he thought the words would come out.

Sam does not touch George like he did in the dream. For starters, they’re arranged differently, chests almost pressed against each other, legs tangled together under the sheets.

George is also very much awake, in more ways than one.

Sam is confident as he reaches down and wraps his fingers around George’s shaft, and it’s like he’s pressed the reset button for George’s brain. He can’t really pick out sensations, just that it feels so good and so much, and he doesn’t realise the multitude and volume of the sounds he’s letting himself make until Sam pulls him tightly against his chest.

“You’ve gotta be quieter than that, George,” Sam murmurs, and George can only nod.

He stays like that, tucked in against Sam, now conscious of every little noise Sam is pulling out of him. A part of him wants to hang on and stay like this forever, in this perfectly pleasurable space, permanently teetering on the brink of letting go with Sam there to catch him.

But he is only human, and a human with a lot of pent-up tension at that, so he can only last so long until he’s gone, whispering Sam’s name so quietly he’s only mouthing the shape of the word as he shudders through his orgasm, feeling his dick twitch slightly as Sam keeps stroking him through it.

George pants, coming down, realises he’s gripping Sam’s shoulders incredibly tightly, and softens.

“Thanks,” he exhales, trying to catch his breath. He doesn’t look at Sam, not out of awkwardness, but because he’s simply content to be close in the way that they are.

Sam smells like sweat and sex and, if he buries his nose in the junction of Sam’s neck and collarbone, a faint hint of tea tree oil.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks <3


End file.
